Psychologically Speaking
by Joodiff
Summary: S4. In which Grace reflects on the dynamic between two of her colleagues and eventually runs out of patience... Birthday present for Never Stop Believing in Love. Complete. Enjoy!


**DISCLAIMER**: I own nothing.

**DEDICATION**: _Happy Birthday to Never Stop Believing in Love! xx_

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**Psychologically Speaking…**

by Joodiff

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Quietly working at my desk with my office door open, I can't help overhearing stray snatches of the conversation taking place out in the squad room. It's distracting, to say the least, mainly because I have a very strong suspicion that they've completely forgotten I'm still here. Presumably that's due to the lateness of the hour and the fact that they're both quite used to routinely being the last members of the team to leave at night. I'm tempted to get up and pointedly switch my main office light on, but at this time of the evening I find the soft light of my desk lamp far easier to read and write by, so I reluctantly decide against it. If things get too bad, I could deliberately cause a noisy landslide on my desk. Either that, or put my hands firmly over my ears and start humming loudly to myself.

Really, I'm doing them something of a disservice because they are – broadly speaking – discussing the Flanagan case. The trouble is that they're apparently utterly incapable of doing so without falling into the sort of mischievous flirtation and heavy innuendo that makes me want to march out into the squad room and read them both the Riot Act. Yes, the unfortunate Martin Flanagan was murdered in the wake of a particularly bizarre sexual encounter, but for heaven's sake, we're all experienced law enforcement professionals here, not smutty-minded teenagers. Aren't we?

Evidently not, given Frankie's ribald response to whatever it is Boyd's just suggested.

Honestly, they're as bad as each other.

As I look up and start to watch them through the glass partition that divides my office from the open space beyond, I begin to wonder if they're actually consciously aware of just how much they fancy each other. Probably not, is my irritable conclusion. I can't help thinking it would be much better for all of us if they just faced up to the truth and got on with getting it out of their system. Preferably at home behind closed doors.

Boyd and Frankie. Now that's actually a very interesting concept, psychologically speaking. They're a lot more alike than they probably realise. Both of them sharp-edged and prickly in their own way; not afraid to say what they think, not afraid of confrontation or conflict. And in some ways both of them are intensely vulnerable whether they know it or not. I think they could learn a lot from each other. And probably have a lot of fun along the way. Though I'm not predisposed to explore that notion too closely.

It wouldn't last, of course. _Couldn't_ last. But that doesn't necessarily mean they shouldn't make the attempt. I honestly don't think they'd hurt each other; not in any lasting, significant way. A couple of emotional scrapes and bruises, perhaps, a few distant pangs of regret, but that's about all.

I find myself warming to the idea. Let them work it out in the most natural, inevitable way, and then perhaps as a team we can look forward to a time when we don't all have to look sideways at each other while they flirt not-very-subtly-at-all over a skeletonised corpse. Or the equivalent.

There's no doubt about it, the mutual flirting's _definitely_ increased over the last few months. Maybe it's got something to do with Boyd's jaunty new beard. It suits him rather too much, and – Boyd being Boyd – he unquestionably knows it, too. I have a dark suspicion he won't be considering shaving it off anytime soon. It's attracting _far_ too much fascinated female attention right across the board. He's so ridiculously, amusingly vain.

I shift my attention from _them_ to _him_. At some point in the last few hours his jacket's disappeared and I find myself unashamedly studying the enticing width of his shoulders. He's perched on the edge of Spence's desk, hands deep in his trouser pockets, shirtsleeves nonchalantly rolled to the elbow, and he's staring contemplatively at the evidence board while Frankie makes quick, explanatory sort of gestures. I'm guessing she's giving him her expert opinion on the general method of dismemberment, the kind of implement used, the force required. She _could_ be telling him exactly what she'd like to do to him in the privacy of her bedroom for all I know, but I'd far prefer to imagine that she's talking about how best to remove the head and limbs from a recently-deceased human being.

I watch him and I reflect that Frankie's not the only one who likes him.

_I_ like him. A little more than I really should, no doubt.

It wouldn't work. I know it wouldn't. He's too volatile, too impetuous. Too damaged. Boyd needs a Frankie, not a Grace. He needs someone who's not remotely interested in saving him from himself, who's not interested in trying to heal him. And that's also why _they_ categorically won't work. Because when all the passion's spent and the fierce animal attraction has waned, neither of them will have any interest in making all the compromises and concessions that could conceivably keep them together. I almost wish I could sit them both down and quietly explain it to them. I honestly think they need to be together, but I also believe that once they cross that particular line everything's going to burn very fast and very intense for them. It might last weeks, it might even last months, but it _won't_ last forever. The certain knowledge makes me rather sad. Knowing that there won't be any happily ever after for them. Or perhaps there will. Perhaps _their_ happily ever after will be a solid friendship devoid of the suffocating attraction that's currently driving them both crazy.

I also believe Boyd could be very good for her. Briefly. For all his faults, he's a decent man. Strong, loyal; protective. The kind of man I think Frankie needs to teach her a few gentle lessons about the nature of trust, stability and self-esteem. I have no doubt he'd do it gruffly and impatiently, but given half a chance I believe he _would_ do it. In a veritable ocean of flaws, kindness is one of his most redeeming features. He's not at all sentimental, but he _is_ kind. At heart, where it matters. Compassionate. No-one could never accuse him of not caring; in fact, it often strikes me that he cares far too much. About the people under his command, and about those we attempt to serve.

The sound of Boyd laughing snaps me out of my reverie. Frankie's grinning at him, and they momentarily look so completely… connected… that I shake my head ruefully. Do they _really_ not see what they could have together? Do they _really_ not understand that sometimes surrendering to the inevitable is absolutely the best option?

I can't believe it's just professional propriety that's stopping them. Neither of them are the sort to worry too much about such things, and Boyd has form, after all. Then again, knocking off his DS, as Spencer has been known to so delicately put it, didn't do much for his career, so perhaps it's a case of once-bitten…

But Frankie isn't Jess Worrall, and she isn't a police officer.

Nor am I, in fact.

For God's _sake_…

The idea of a… relationship… with Boyd is a complete non-starter. I'm happy with my life; why on earth would I want to complicate it by adding a man like him to it? Not that he isn't _already_ complicating it, I suppose, but how much worse would it be if he was more to me than simply a friend and colleague? If I couldn't walk away from him at the end of the day? We fight like cat and dog as it is, without adding romance to what's already an explosive mix. Romance… and sex.

Hm. It's quite possible we might be fundamentally incompatible, but the idea of sex with him does have a certain appeal.

I abruptly realise exactly what I'm thinking about and I feel myself flush slightly. It annoys me. We live in a society where only the young and the beautiful are supposed to be sexual creatures, particularly where women are concerned. The rest of us are supposed to rest firmly on our laurels, and it's not fair.

Suddenly morose, I go back to watching the two of them. People-watching is always interesting, doubly so in this case. They seem to be completely unaware of just how much they're giving away with every move, every gesture. It's not difficult to read their body language. Boyd is on his feet now, hands on his hips, back very straight as he faces her. I almost laugh; it's such a textbook display of available masculinity, however unconscious. Amusing to observe, but frustrating, too. How much longer are they going to play these pointless, subconscious games with each other? I'm not sure I can tolerate it indefinitely. Not without finally losing my temper and banging their heads together. Metaphorically or otherwise.

Please, for the sake of my sanity, will you just quietly take yourselves down to the coast for the traditional dirty weekend? Or something. Anything, really. Just _stop_ flirting so obviously and outrageously with each other. It's ridiculously unprofessional, for a start, and extremely annoying to watch.

Wait. Could it be that I'm a little jealous? No. No, I don't think so. After all, he flirts with me, too. Just not quite so… provocatively.

I realise with considerable exasperation that, yes, I'm jealous.

Terrific.

But I really _don't_ want him. Not in _that_ way. Do I?

I try thinking seriously about the unrelenting chaos Boyd could – and _would_ – cause in my life. It helps. I look down at the report I've been trying to get finished for the last hour and notice I've achieved disastrously little thanks to the on-going distraction in the squad room. I glance up at the clock and I'm surprised to find that it's already past ten. It's definitely time to give in and go home. I spend a moment or two vaguely attempting to tidy my desk, but it's a thankless and unproductive task so eventually I simply abandon the idea altogether and stand up. I've stiffened up sitting here for so long, and for a moment I gently stretch and flex, only coincidentally keeping an eye on my colleagues on the other side of the glass.

I _know_ it won't work. Boyd and Frankie. Alike they may be, but there's not enough beyond the sexual chemistry. The considerable age difference won't help them, either; not in the long run. He's got nearly twenty years on her. When Boyd was a fresh-faced young constable not long out of Hendon, Frankie probably hadn't even started school. I smile as it occurs to me just how much he'd thank me for bringing that fact to his attention.

But they could give it a go. In fact, they definitely _should_ give it a go, if only to finally exorcise the crackling tension between them. If I know them half as well as I think I do, they'd somehow find a way to carry on working together afterwards. I think they're too genuinely fond of each other not to. I'd like to see them reach some kind of permanent equilibrium with each other. Like to see them set free from everything that's currently got such a strong hold on them.

As I start to shrug into my coat, I inadvertently catch Boyd's eye. There's no surprise in the slight smile he gives me. Perhaps I was wrong and they were always well-aware of my silent presence. What else can I do but smile back at him? It's not _just_ him and her. We have something, too. I'm not quite sure what role he's cast me in, but it cheers me to know that I _do_ have a role. It's not just Boyd and Frankie; it's Boyd and Grace, too. I like that.

He turns slightly as Frankie speaks to him again, and I see – very clearly – the way she looks at him. So hungry and yet so apprehensive. She wants him and it scares her.

Oh, Frankie. Frankie. Just throw caution to the winds and kiss him, will you? He won't bite. Though, actually, knowing Boyd, he just might. But, trust me, you'd probably enjoy it. And I'd really rather not dwell too much on that.

Picking up my bag, I switch off the desk lamp and leave my office, closing the door quietly behind me. It's Frankie who smiles and says, "Had enough for the night?"

"More than enough," I say, and unlike Frankie I'm not talking about paperwork. "I hadn't realised it had got so late."

"You know what they say," Boyd says, leaning himself up against wall. "Time flies when you're having fun."

He's disgustingly handsome. One of those infuriating men who simply carry on getting better looking as they get older. The laughter-lines, the brindled beard, the bright silver in his hair, it all just adds to his attractiveness. Very, very annoying. Oh, yes; I know _exactly_ what Frankie sees in him.

"I wouldn't know about that," I tell him, refusing to let myself become distracted. "But what I _do_ know is that my brain can't cope with any more report-writing tonight and there's a bottle of wine waiting at home with my name on it."

"We should maybe talk about this increasing alcohol problem of yours, Grace," he teases.

"Whenever you like," I tell him casually. "My door's always open, you know that."

Something subtle is passing between us. I can't quite decide what, but whatever it is, Frankie senses it, too. Just for a moment _she's_ the one on the outside looking in. It doesn't give me any satisfaction. In fact, it makes me feel acutely sorry for her. She's going to have a lot of fun with him, sooner or later, I have no doubt about that, but it'll be over almost before she knows it. Inevitable. Suddenly I understand that I'm in a far better position than poor Frankie is. It's better, sometimes, to stay well away from the entrancing flames no matter how much you think you need their warmth. Safer.

I wish them both good night and I head for the double doors that lead to the steps beyond. Behind me, I hear them start again. Flirting, bantering; ever-circling, getting precisely nowhere. Do they _really_ enjoy it? Or is it as just frustrating for _them_ as it is for _me_ as an observer?

I stop. I only hesitate for just a moment before I steadily retrace my steps. Boyd looks round at me, faintly quizzical. It's strange, given how fiery and quick-tempered he is, but there are so many things that I'm not at all afraid to say to him that I would never dare to say to Frankie. I open with, "Boyd…?"

He turns fully to face me, dark eyes intent and curious. "Grace?"

Here it comes. The speech I really, really shouldn't make. "For God's sake, just take the poor girl out to dinner, will you? And then take her home to bed. It would be so much better for everyone if you both stopped messing around and just got on with it."

Frankie's face is a picture. Outrage, incredulity, hope, embarrassment and so much more. But Boyd is much older and wiser. He quirks an elegant eyebrow at me, says gravely, "Thank you so much for your input, Grace. Your contribution is, as ever, highly valued."

He really is one of a kind. I smirk, I nod, and I retreat. God alone knows what's going to happen as soon as I'm out of earshot. I really hope he takes my advice, but I suspect that's a little like hoping that water will suddenly flow uphill. Perhaps I should have advised him _not_ to take any action. Reverse psychology.

I walk along the long, gloomy corridor heading for the building's main exit. I'm incredibly fond of both of them. But I still don't think they've got the proverbial cat's chance in hell of making it work for more than a few dazzling weeks. I _do_ think they'll thoroughly enjoy every minute of whatever time they do manage, though.

I have a nasty suspicion that I'm going to be summoned into the headmaster's office and called a few choice names tomorrow. 'Interfering old woman' being just one of them. It'll probably be worth it.

Boyd and Frankie. I smirk quietly to myself again as I step out into the cool night air. A _very_ interesting concept, psychologically speaking.

_- the end -_


End file.
